The Brown Brethren. Patrick MacGill

power and dogged courage were his great assets, and these when taken in conjunction with his good humour and simple nature made him a loved comrade and worthy friend.

      Bowdy was now seated at the inn table, drinking beer with his mate, an alert youth with a snub nose and bright vivacious eyes. His name was Spudhole.

      Spudhole was a Londoner, a native of Walworth. His real name was Thomas Bubb, but his mates nicknamed him Spudhole, a slang term for the guard-room. The nickname became him, he liked it and was not a little proud of the fact that no man in the regiment spent as many days in the guard-room as did Rifleman Thomas Bubb. He was eternally guilty of trivial offences against Army regulations. This was in a great measure due to his inability to accommodate himself to a changed environment. He was a coster unchangeable and unchanged; to him an officer was always "Guv'nor," he addressed an officer as such, and the Colonel was the "ole bloke." His tongue was seldom quiet and the cries of his trade were ever on his tongue, even on parade he often gave them expression. He sang well, drank well, fought well, and loved practical jokes.

      Once at St. Albans he dressed himself up as a corporal, took two of his mates to the railway station and relieved the military police on duty there. Mistaking him for a real N.C.O. they left the station in his hands. Of course he took the first train to London. On his return he was awarded fourteen days' spud-hole.

      When in the guard-room he decided to escape and at the hour of twelve on the first night when a sentry stood on watch outside his prison Spudhole broke the window with a resounding thump. Then he rushed back and stood behind the door. He was in stocking-soles, his boots were slung round his shoulders by the laces. On hearing the crash the sentry opened the door, sprang into the room and hurried to the window thinking that Spudhole was trying to escape by that quarter—and Spudhole went out by the door.

      He was very good-natured, in fact quixotic. Once a recruit belonging to Bubb's section was so very slack that the officer brought him out in front of the squad and got him to perform several movements in musketry drill. The remainder of the party had to shout out when the man made any mistakes. As is usual, the onlookers saw many faults and shouted themselves hoarse. But Bubb was silent. When the slack recruit returned to his place in the ranks the officer spoke to Spudhole.

       "Did you notice any of those mistakes?" he asked.

      "Yes, sir," Bubb replied.

      "And why did you not say so?" enquired the officer.

      "Well, I didn't want to give the bloke away," was Bubb's answer.

      The youngster had spent four years in a reformatory; afterwards as a coster he presided over a barrow in a turning off Walworth Road. His pitch was one of the best in the locality. He fell in love with a girl who kept a barrow beside him. He often spoke of her to Bowdy Benners.

      "She's not 'arf a bird," he would say. "Nobody can take a mike out 'er. I'm goin' to get spliced after the war too."

      Near the stove sat the remaining soldier, an Irishman named Fitzgerald. He was a thin graceful fellow of about five-and-twenty, and could not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His lips full and red, his straight nose, delicate nostrils, black liquid eyes and long lashes betrayed a passionate and sensitive nature. He was a thoughtful man, grave and dutiful, but at times as petulant and perverse as a child. Even when most perverse he was good company.

      He was exceedingly superstitious. His thoughts generally wandered with startling suddenness from one subject to another but this was probably due to the use of strong drink. He had had a college education but took to drink early and squandered all his resources. Then he became a rover and wandered through many parts of the world as sailor, tramp and outcast. He had slept in doss-houses, on the pavements, in the fields. Once indeed he was a trombone player in the Salvation Army, and again he fought in a Mexican rebellion. Then he belonged to a regiment, the soldiers of which had to wear great coats on their triumphal march through a certain town because of the bad condition of their trousers. Fitz knew a smattering of most languages but vowed that he was only proficient in one—bad language.

      At present he was in a gay good humour and as he spoke to young Benners his voice, loud enough but very soft and pleasant, penetrated to the very corners of the inn.

      "Do you ever feel afraid, Bowdy?" he asked. "Funky, you know." Then, without waiting for an answer, he went on: "God! I do feel afraid, sometimes. Out on listening patrol. It's hell for a man with imagination. Crawling out in the darkness between the lines. You hear the grass whispering, and the darkness ahead of you may hide anything. An awful face covered with blood may rise up in front, a hand may come out and grasp you by the hair. The dead are lying around you, poor quiet creatures, but you know that they're stronger than you are. I often wish I couldn't think, that I lacked imagination, that I was a clod of earth, just something like that plebeian there." Fitzgerald raised his finger and pointed to Bubb who was rapping his idle fingers on the legs of his chair. Bubb gazed at Fitzgerald and laughed.

      "Fleebian," he exclaimed. "I know wot that is. We 'ad one but the wheel came off."

      "No imagination there," said Fitzgerald with an air of finality. "He couldn't be afraid, that creature. No soul. I dare ten thousand times as much to overcome my fear as that man would dare to win the V.C. When I go out on listening patrol I am always furthest out. I feel if I'm a yard behind the front man he'll consider me a coward, so I get out a yard ahead of him and I tremble all the time.

      "God! I had a bad dream last night," Fitzgerald remarked swinging from one topic to another. "I dreamt I saw a woman dressed in black looking into an empty grave."

      "That's a bad sign," said the sergeant. "You'll be damned unlucky the next time yer go up to the trenches. Ye'll never come back. Ye'll get done in."

      "Oh, I'll come back safe and sound," Fitzgerald replied in all seriousness. "The dream was a bad one and portended some evil."

      "And is it not bad enough to get done in?" asked Benners.

      "There are things worse than death," was Fitzgerald's answer. "Death is not the supreme evil. But women! It's not good to dream of them especially if they're red-haired. Did you ever dream of red-haired women, Bowdy?"

      Bowdy laughed but did not speak. Women apparently did not attract him much and in their company he was shy and diffident. Wanting to get away as quickly as possible from their presence he would rake up some imaginary appointment from the back of his head, ask to be excused and disappear. Behaviour of this kind though natural to Bowdy Benners was quite inexplicable to his mates. Fitzgerald having had a drop of wine was now in a mood to discuss womanhood.

       "You're too damned modest, Bowdy," he said. "And you don't shine in the company of the fair, dear women. You know the natural mission of woman is to please man, and man, no matter what he feels, should try and look pleased when in her company. If he looks bored what does that signify, Bowdy Benners? Eh? It means that he has found her ugly. That's an insult to the sex, to feminine charms and womanly qualities. For myself I'd much sooner sin and please a woman than pose as a saint and annoy her. Women don't like saints; what they want most in life is Love."

      "Love! Love is the only allurement in existence," said Fitzgerald rising to his feet. "It is the essence of life. Love, free and unrestrained, not tied to the pillars of propriety by the manacles of marriage. (That's a damned smart phrase, isn't it, Spudhole?) Love is sacred, marriage is not, marriage is governed by laws, love is not. Nature has given us love. It is an instinct and we shouldn't fight against it too much. Why should we fight against a gift from God? Some sacrilegious fool tried to improve on God's handiwork and made laws to govern love. It's like man to poke his nose in where it's not wanted. He'd give the Lord soda water at the Last Supper."

      Snoggers laughed boisterously, Bubb chuckled and a lazy smile spread over Bowdy's face. The gestures of the excited Irishman amused them. He sat down, took a deep breath, then went on to speak in a calmer voice.

      "Love sweetens life," he said. "It is like sugar in children's physic. Here, Spudhole, were you ever in love?"

      "Blimey, not arf," Spudhole answered and winked. "I'm not arf a beggar wiv the birds. I'm. … "

      "That wench